Dr. Dennis L. Siluk’s has published 72-International Book. He is a poet since twelve years old, a writer, Psychologist, Ordained Minister, Decorated Veteran from the Vietnam War, Doctor in Arts and Education, and Doctor Honoris Causa from the National University of Central Peru, UNCP. He was nominated Poet Laureate in Peru. One of his books, “The Galilean”, took Honorable Mention at the 2016 Paris Book Festival and received an award from the Congress of Peru, for his cultural writings.

More
people than you may think, want to read wish-wash, and slush! That’s not a
certain author or poet, or journalist, it’s, ‘wish-was and slush!’ Rather a
source of proceeds for the brain. It has become part of a system having a
designated function to performed within the brain, like an outer garment— Let
me explain: for you have to be a snake-eater, to digest this all at once: you
have to have a specific set of invisible spiritual dysfunctional organs that
collectively perform this specific function of process, and now the devil Has
accomplished this task—it’s called instilling (so simple a word)—instilling whatever he is instilling, inside the heart and soul, and brain and will, of so
many, thus, allowing the level of frightful, and appalling violence seep
through the brain to where it craves more and more and more, like spiritual
matter; better yet, like light striking an atom and knocking out an electron; well
perhaps like: butter on bread! It now has become a psychological and physical disease:
like alcoholism, or compulsive gambling: this is in essence, wish-wish and
slush! Believe it or not, another
comparison might be this, for the more scientific minded person: simple a wavelength, causing destructive
interference—; Satan has his devises.

No: 4488 (7-29-2014)

George
Sterling (Poet)

If
you are asking, “Just who the heck is George Sterling?” In a nutshell: he was a
poet of the 19th and 20th Century. Committed suicide in
1926. Wrote about fourteen books, which I have studied to no end. His father
was a minister, and he, was one of those rare poets, which I will explain in a
moment. He was a close friend, and
admired by Jack London, and Ambrose Bierce. And a friend to Clark A. Smith. He
was Poet Laureate of San Francisco; and perhaps we can say even Southern
California. Those who have read him, and
who have said, his poetry is too zigzagging, too complicated, or having too
much imagery, to the point of being zapped out of its long lines or stanzas, or
sonnets, let me explain: it is called indulging in a new language of reading.
Better put: the poet is trying to convey his poetry, a style that has no
language, no words, poetry that came to
him in a supernatural way, and thus, to understand it, one must step into that
realm: it is a language without narration; one he can jump to the present and
past, here or there in the clap of an eye, one with no boundaries, which he
tries to put into words with: rhyme, fix and set verse, blank and free verse, into
meter, feet, syllables, dancing to Orion’s heat waves. It’s convoluted thoughts and voices and this
innovation makes his poetry incredibly challenging to the reader. Did he
accomplish what he set out to do? Perhaps, for the die-hard poet. He was the
Faulkner, you might say, of poetry of his day; no different than reading “Finnegan’s
Wake,” a masterpiece by many, and a fake by many…!

No: 4499 (7-30-2014)

Writing of the
Galilean

Ask me once and only once, how
I wrote the book:

“The Galilean,” then ask me no
more!

For the wonder of the vision is
far beyond the farthest outpost of the mind, perhaps even the last hidden star!

—where there resides no
language of common words, no language for narration, or empiricism;

Yet by some divine golden
spiritual miracle of speech, the poetry I wrote was conveyed to me—

New Orleans. Bourbon Street. An old man,
with a harsh face, his breath reeking
with alcohol, somewhat with crippled walk (a portion of one leg missing), an ape
like walk, and ape like agility, he stops by a young man walking the opposite
way. He moves up closer to the young man’s face. The old man’s eyes are wild
looking, but not threatening. He has a
crutch, and he seems to be more athletic than he really is. He is still to the
youth, a mystery.

A closer look at the young man, we see he is
in his twenties. It is fall, and he has a long cloak on, tightly around him.
The old man now exercises his crutch taking it from under his armpit, he which now
seemingly he is using it as a kind of a prophet’s staff, moving it about, and
keeping his balance quite well. He has kind of a coffin-shaped forehead. He
looks down to think, to put his words he is going to use, together; he’s got
the young man’s attention.

Old Man.
“Say, you’re a young fella now, and you got both legs. But someday you’re going to need a bite of
bread and a cup of coffee perhaps, just a cup of coffee, to keep the wet out of
your bones; and you may stop a fella like I’m stopping you, and he may remind
you of your son, like you do for me, —I was a good father once, back in my
youth, so fella can you spare a quarter?”

The old man raises his hand, staring just
over the young man’s shoulder as if staring out of a window, or over the roof
of the café down the street. He acts
almost as though to himself alone. The
young man gives him a quarter, and moves on.

Fade Out.

Fade In

2

Morning.

Music.

Fifteen minutes have passed between the
last meeting of the old man and the youth. The young man sees the old man in
high spirits, going into a movie theater, one of those with double features of
naked girls and all that pervasive stuff. Now slow and graceful the old man
moves. It is as if the young man is trying to readjust his vision to make sure
it is really the old man, and heads to the front of the theater, but sees only
the back of the old man, finding his way into where the show house is.

The Youth. “Well,
don’t that beat it all…?”

3

Evening, on Bourbon Street.

Music.

The youth is standing on a balcony,
leaning over an iron rail looking down upon the Bourbon Street—and sees the old
man for the last time. The moon is a gibbous
moon this evening, and a tinge shadowy. And the people down below look more
like spectral creatures than people, but the old man, he stands out like the
Temple of Ramses…

He notices the old man walks to the side
of the street. He’s making gestures of dismissal to the bystanders. It would
seem the old man is a little tipsy, and spins around on his Moses like stick.
He dances around a streetlight, in one full movement.

Police Man to his Police friend. “I got a drunk on me,” and his friend responds,
“I can see that!”

Young Man.
“Yew, now where is he?” he has lost sight of the old man for the moment.

Old Man.
“Alright,” says the old man, “where’s your warrant?”

The police man now leans towards him,
looking at his sorry clothing, rips and tares and patches, everywhere: shirt
pants, warn trench coat: his shoe got a hole in the right toe area, and the
sole is open to the air, unattached to the shoe. He has no socks on.

Old Man.
“Take your hands off me,” the old man yelps. The police officer hadn’t
touched him yet, although it looked as if he was about to.

We hear, from the street, the noise of the
crowds, some singing, and music in the background coming from a few nightclubs;
the people that walk by are colorfully dressed. The old man is standing on one
leg, with his staff he spins about his head to ward off the policeman, leaning
against a light post, the officer ducks.

Old Man. “You want to arrest me in my own city, my
own street! Arrest meeee…! Where’s law and justice? I’m a member of the greatest nation on earth!
Had a government job, once!”

Police Man.
“You think you can do whatever you want, haw?”

The old man now puts the old crutch back
under his armpit. But keeps the same attitude on his face, that of defiance,
disobedience. A few bystanders look his way, none stop.

Old Man. “I
was born in America, and I paid my taxes willingly and I’m as good a citizen as
anyone on this street. When America needed me—before you were born—I was there
for her. I’m first to say ‘America, take me’? But you see, the railroad cut off
my leg, sure as the day is long, sheered it up—per near up—to my kneecap. I didn’t complain. All
my life I worked hard. And now you want to arrest me because I’m a little
drunk, gentlemen, you’re nothing but cowards, go find some gangsters!”

Both the police and the old man, and the
young man on the terrace, notice the paddy wagon, approaching.

Old Man.
“Okay, I’ll go, I’ll get into that wagon coming without trouble,”
croaked the old man, looking at the police truck approaching, “I’m an American
citizen, I never refuse a friend in my life, even if he’s the police, I respect
the law.”

Half-way in, the old man turns for
recapitulation, sees the youth looking down from the terrace at him, the old
man tries to put on a smile of triumph,
then turning to the police pushing him inward, gives a defiant smirk.

Old Man: “I
got rich friends,” he tells the police as he craws hands
and knees, halfway into the back of the truck, “most are dead though!” He
adjusts his trench coat sleeves, passes his crutch to one of the policemen of
which he was trying to pull alongside of him into the wagon.

Police Driver. “Come on, come on,” says the driver, “I aint can’t
got all night long to fool around with jus’ one old man!”

Young Man.
“So long old fella,” yells the young lad from the terrace railing.

Now the old man is pushed abruptly and
completely into the wagon, as it clangs away, out of sight from the young man,
and policemen.

Young Man.
“So long old fella” says the young man again, with a wave of his right hand,
and a half smile.

The policeman, looks up to see the young
fellow who’s doing the yelling, comfortably leaning over the railing, he is not
more than a shadow, shakes his head and walks away.

Notes:
William Faulkner spent six months in New Orleans in 1925, this short
story “Echo’s on Bourbon Street” comes from that period of his writings. It was
a time when he was in essence, forming his style. In truth, this was his period
of armature writing. He himself was only twenty-seven, and perhaps he was
writing more on his reflections, and this story of which comes with the title:
“Mirrors of Charters Street” are his reflections. This is supercilious viewing
of New Orleans street life. The author has been to New Orleans, and uses
characteristic phrasings to accompany this new piece of work, based lightly on
the story-line of Faulkner’s short story “Mirrors of Charters Street” of which
was published in a local newspaper at that time, loosely in the form of a film
scenario. But the author brings out some exciting new reading, in his own magical
way, with vividness, evident in the dialogue and mounting dismay of both the
old man and the encounter with the young lad, and the police. One also can see,
with Faulkner and the author, an element of vorticism: that is to say, a form
of art in literature that arose around 1914, a movement that draws the reader
deeper and deeper into the spin of the story; at which time the artist was
using cubism.

First, let me make a firm statement I believe: I say this because it is
not everyone’s belief: only God can make a Minister a minister of the Gospel! I
have studied this area, went to Graduate School for it, did evangelism work,
was ordained a minister in good standing in 1993, but I am not a minister. I am
a poet, and I know it. Why do I say this?
Simply: capacity, culture and application makes a good scholar, this I
have. This also makes a good philosopher, this I have, and an orator, this I
can do, but am not so good at. All these
last things I mention can make for a good poet, this I am. But a true minister, he must have certain principles,
motives, feelings, aims, this, —man cannot give to man: that is why the Lord
asked me “What do you want to be?” And I answered, “Sir, a poet!” Yes, in essence, it must be given from above.

The Holy Scriptures is a second maxim, due a minister of the Gospel.

He must fill himself up: head to toe, with this ingredient, this is his
most important study: to know and to teach. Of course prayer is involved, but
that is without saying, involved with all maxims in becoming a minister of the
gospel; thus, everything else must be subservient to the studying of the word.

Now I could stretch this out to be a full book and then some, but being
a poet, I like to condense, so my 3rd, point, or must is: he need
not speak in a copied, or unreal self-applauding language of man’s insight, but
simply with the authority: like the one who senses the ground he stands upon,
and recognizes to whom he belongs and that ground belongs to, and whom he
serves, and this of course is God, Jesus Christ personified. In essence, he must be driven by Divine
Providence, not human arrangements.

If indeed he wants to win souls, he belongs to the College of Heaven, or
Heavenly College, so one must, count the cost.

Now this last point, the person seeking to be a minister of the gospel, in
a manner of speaking, is self-evident, He: must have a plan. Now he has
choices: with this he must select a) a tutor; b) the choice of pupil he wants
to be; c) the course of education.
Select wisely all choices, perhaps be a critic to yourself, you may
discover something’s are just feelings not ardent desires; thinking is better
than acting on feelings.

Where in
our High School was her equal? Heaven
had willed otherwise, there was none. Surely many saw her beauty, Gayle
Johnson’s, but none did I see, that she allowed wooing her. And she, when she
saw me, grand with eyes for none save her, she gazed as none of that High
School had ever gazed. Those girls who walked with her, watched were hushed as
though they had looked briefly into the Temple of Ramses. It was as if both he
and she were promised, but unmatched. Nonetheless soon this silent romance
would dissipate; now each must pick the yellow rose and throw the red back. It
was not then, and now the yellow rose is old and black and twisted. But back
then it was green, fresh and young, if not wild.

Yes,
I came from what the police called Donkeyland, down on Jackson Street, in St.
Paul, Minnesota, not so unlike those moviemaker’s backyard Bowery Boys, who
were hooligans in the eastern part of New York City. Where the guys were bold
and tough and wild. And over by Indians Hill, each weekend, we’d all get drunk.
How long? Ah, who knows? All weekend I
suppose, I am very old now, it is hard to remember, I have forgotten much.

I followed my flock that is the gang,
the Cayuga Street gang, the guys and gals in the neighborhood. As if I was one
of the goats, moseying about the vineyard, slopes, drinking up the sun, with
alcohol in the summers, and in the winters,
finding some local, and turning on the radio to the Rock & Roll: the
crucial music of those golden days.

But during my last year at Washington
High School, 1965, when I saw Gayle walking down the hall, as I was the Hallway
Monitor, near the cafeteria, her faint, but sweet smile was like the broken
flight of a silver winged bird: I was liken to a lad who drowsed among the
sun-swelled rocks of Mount Olympus awaiting her glance: the air and heat and
silence, that filled her appearance, roused me to a spell; plus, neither can I
forget how my eyes did follow her.

And she was young also, a year or so
younger than I. Almost daily we met,
among the so called bystanders and
walkabouts going to and fro from the cafeteria, and the many goats of that high
school, and for a moment it would seem that we both slipped away from the rest
of the world, to idle in the sweet moment of one’s passing; that is, one passing
one another. How like, a little goat she
was, big leaping eyes, and I paused, taking what pleasure I could in the
offered moment, knowing there was no more to it than that, or was there?

And ah, how she come into flower; how
the eyes of young men did follow her, I took no labor in it, only that this one moment in the day was all
arranged for us, although I would gladly have done more had I felt worthy, or
more enticed.

To be more exact, I had never known even
her name. Only once at a high school dance, did we dance—how I labored and
saved that moment, wooed her that moment, can’t remember if she teased me or
not. If she did it was fine, for where was her equal in that high school? There
was none! And they who watched us dance were hushed. But I was told to leave, I
had alcohol on my breath, so again I must say, I had now the yellow rose, only to throw away again the red, back to
where I found it.

Looking back now: was there a promise?
Was it all arranged?

After I left High School to go on to my
many adventures and wanderings in life:
the fiddles were silent and the sun had dropped over this dreaming
purple romance, and I still did not know her name, even though I’d find out
later on in life; find out that is, that she wrote in my yearbook “I love you!”
and her name. Yes it was seen, but no one knew her, who knew me at the time she
wrote it, and having missed that day in school, was not there to witness her
signature, for I had asked, who Gayle Johnson was! And again I say: no one I
knew, knew. Thus the saints had willed otherwise. Or was it a breeze of satire
someone was playing on me, or real? For perhaps in those far-off days I was
more flirtatious than I really thought I was, for I never thought I was, but
some folks did think otherwise. Who’s to say?

I am old now, I forget easily, ah, there
was one other moment, 1994, and she called me at my work, a proud voice, like a
thin sword, being taken out of a velvet sheath; I had been ill for a long
while, but was recovered when she had made that call. She wanted to meet me,
and she said “I’m Gayle Johnson” but who was Gayle Johnson? Again we didn’t
meet. Had I seen her eyes for none save her, she and I would have danced again,
hushed by surely those old High School rivals, had there been any? For she was
music like a hundred guitars.

That year, the year my mother passed
away, 2003, amid the papers I had stored away in her apartment, were my yearbooks
from Washington High School, I looked up the name Gayle Johnson, and her
picture, loud as giant iron-silver plated bells, rang in my head, when I saw
those Betty Davis eyes, but again the night had gone away, and the stars were
gone, and youth had faded, and I had married a cute little Inca Princess. Yes,
the saints are very good, but late if indeed we were to cause anymore hush!

What? Was I sad? I do not know. I have known joy and sorrow,
but now I do not remember, I do know I was curious. And yes, I have kept that
yellow rose, mentally anyhow, ever since that discover.

Yes, I have kept it. And if we ever are
to meet again, she will doubtless desire me to have kept it, those retentions, and
recapitulations; had I not, or should I not, —she surely would be saddened. And it has well repaid me, in that I have
this little layer of romance for you to read, of those far-off days of Aquarius.

Note: For the curious
reader the last year of innocence for me was 1959, I was twelve years old, I
wrote my first poem “Who”; the following year 1960, would be the year of chaos,
transition, guilt, wild adventures.

At the near approach of Pompey—it is hard to grasp how huge his
reputation, his fame: he was called Pompey the Great!

Perhaps the most famous man in the World,
in 50 B.C., not so unlike, Alexander the Great”

He changed the history of the Roman World,
and that of Spain— and far beyond the boards of Italy, Egypt, Syria, to mention
but a few!

And the tides of time grew higher for him,
as the years passed, to old age—

He would be stabbed in the back on a
skiff, at the age of 58-years old, in the waters of the Nile; but for now, life
was at its height!

His arms tore from the earth the top of
one great wave:

It was as if Julius Cesar was the moon
under that wave, and he tore Cesar out of the Mediterranean Basin, out above
some great wave, as if he was a cold white stone—

Cesar who made his name in Gaul:

Who thought himself higher than Pompey,
and was determined to make Pompey pay one way or another, if indeed he could make
him clean out his stall, he would…

But Cesar was not Rome, not yet, Cesar was
only Cesar in those early days—Pompey was Rome!

And Cesar would have to watch Pompey’s
triumph, but he also would watch him plunge!

Thus, what made Pompey famous, would make Cesar
Great!

And both would leave a great wound in the
world, and Rome!

Both, dragging Rome alongside them,
haggard with loneliness.

The Romans had their mythology, they had
their gods and heroes, and they worked alongside of their truth…

Perhaps never touching it, the equations
always a little lopsided, —

And when need be, the Senate invented new
ones

Cesar now back from Gaul, with a 40,000-man
Army threatened to invade Rome!

Pompey, feeling it was unlikely he could,
countered his attack, his threats on land and sea, with over 60,000-men of war;

Feeling Cesar had huge pits of darkness
and grandeur, and no high peaks of light, foresight, or military insight—

Only that he was flashy yet unstable,
thence like a slow dribble, made life unbearable for Cesar—

Starving Cesar slowly and his men, to the
point they ate dirt!

Hence, like a flashing rock in darkness,
he subdued Cesar into submission; As a result, had he destroyed Cesar, which
was the breath of Cesar’s passion for Rome and the world:

Cesar’s virus would not have touched Rome,
nor his successors!

Perhaps would have remained a Republic!

And so what was originally the Will of
Rome, in due time, became the Will of Cesar—

Cesar wanted Rome in a panic, and as the
old saying goes, “Don’t trust ghosts!”

And so by allowing Cesar to return to Rome
and the Senate, Pompey gave Rome, a court, a Senate, with calm gods, and no
warring eagles, and made all the young soldiers like old soldiers: soldiers of obedience.

But Rome wanted change at any cost.

This was the difference between Cesar and
Pompey;

And so Rome chose the devil!

Is it not true: one day a man is praised
as a king, the next by the worms?

There was those days, when Pompey fought
the Great King Mithridates, back in 71 B.C., but time passes—

Cesar made Pompey the enemy!

Now Pompey was on a ship in the harbor of
Pelusium, Egypt, down the Nile…

He had brought the Yong King Ptolemy into
power (now but 13-years old)

“Ship ahoy!” called a voice from the dock.

“Yes,” said the Captain of Pompey’s ship.

In the background one could see Mount Cassius.

Pompey now remembering an old saying from a sibyl: ‘The sand is
falling—

Beware of old enemies!”

Says Pompey: “The upright soul is safe!”

The Captain and the sailors aboard, were concerned about the
warships in the harbor, being manned.

And the king, as he sailed by on his grand ship, only smiled at
Pompey, could he not see the treachery in this?

Could he not see that Cesar ruled the dust and dirt of Egypt, as
he did all of Italy and Rome and all Rome’s seized provinces?

Could he not see when he got into the ransacked vessel that came
to deliver him to the king an insult?

Could he not see the daggers in the hands of the sailors?

Could he not feel their blazing breath?

He was a man who could feel good and evil,
pain and pleasure, but what he could not feel or taste or fathom, was the
nauseous drought, in a man’s heart he loved, in this case, a boy-king.

“You are the Great King, that king whom is
king over kings and kingdoms—

Your domains stretch around the while Mediterranean,

The Caspian to the Red Sea.

To all peoples and languages.

From Egypt, to Ethiopia, to Babylon, and Palestine, and soon to be
Greece!

But that will be short lived. (The King looked scornful at her last
words but remained kneeling and silent and looking towards the sun...)

With your Immortals, and two million man army, you will find a way
through the Hot Gates; a betrayer will show you for a handsome reward!

Soon the battle will be combined:

Victory at Thermopylae will be daunting to your soldiers;

You will need lashes to make them fight!

Thus, beseech the sun, if you will and death to the Greeks for
their idol-worship as you wish, and to their gods, you so despise, your victory
will be harsh. (From the corner of his eye, again heresented
her prophesying but remained silent, looking towards the sun…)

I see they guard the Hot Gates, their leader is Leonidas: and as
they do so your spies will soon tell you, they comb their hair, dance and eat.

Fear not, this is custom, it will pass. (And the
king thought: ‘How dare her say fear not, as if I have something to fear…! But
said naught.)

The blood of Hercules, runs through them.

There is seven hundred Thespians and four hundred Thebans, and
only three hundred Spartans, but they will kill 20,000-of your men!...

(The King did not blink an eye…)

Your heat will say: ‘Why do they not flee?’

The Thespians and Thebans hearts will be weak, but not the
Spartans.

The Thebans will beg for Mercy, but the Spartans will give no
quarter.

The mountains will cover them well.

And your generals will fight over the body Leonidas;

He will make your name remembered for three thousand years!”

The King stopped her, by gesture of a
movement of his hand:

he was resentful, hitherto, he had been
kneeling, not in a defensive or offensive posture, but now as to inspire those
around him for many dreaded the Grecian name of Leonidas, and so he spoke:

“Wretched Seer,” he cried, and his cry being
more like yelp of a hound, could be heard throughout his immense campsite:

“It is I who will make him unforgotten,
for a dozen millenniums to come!”

And she trembled, for at great length his
words echoed in her cerebellum: but she could not withdraw them, it is what she
saw.

And nay, he would not believe.

“You lie!” said the Great King,
“untrustworthy oracle.”

Then word was brought to King Xerxes, his
two brothers were killed, as was Leonidas.

Then the Great king asked for the exiled
Spartan Prince, Demaratus, whom was to his side, called the betrayer:

“How many such Spartans like Leonidas are
there in Greece?”

And Demaratus told him there was a total
of eight thousand.

And then the King stood up from his latter
position, looked at the seer, and she knew (and she could hear the crackling of the
chestnut leaves under the feet of the
Persian general Hydarnes, and his army infiltrated the passage, through the
thick forest that covered the hillside.):